


Love (Noun)

by tehanu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6962749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehanu/pseuds/tehanu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has no idea what love is, so he looks it up in a dictionary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love (Noun)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarikaSnape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarikaSnape/gifts).
  * A translation of [Słownik: miłość](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6864550) by [MarikaSnape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarikaSnape/pseuds/MarikaSnape). 



 

“I’m leaving,” he says, putting on his khaki coat.

“Mm,” I mutter, not looking up at him.

“Will only be a moment, in case you are worried,” he adds without looking back at me. I glance at my doctor’s back.

I’m not worried, not just now, John. I know you are only going to the shops: we are out of your beloved tea.

As soon as I can hear the front door closing, I leap off the chair and sit at my desk. I open the laptop, typing into Google’s search bar those few unassuming letters, making up a truly frightening word:

 _Love_.

The engine spews back quotations, supposedly wise; cloyingly sweet pictures; Romanticism; _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ ; Petrarch; toxic loves; the pitiful blogs of, as they are referred to, _emos_.

I flinch and add _dictionary_ to the search terms, then click the first link supposed to clarify to me the nature of that calamitous passion, awaited by so many throughout their lives.

_Love (noun):_

_1\. profound affection for another person, usually accompanied by lust_

Now the first part of the definition is applicable, the second, not so much. I have never _lusted_ ; my mind does not register anything so unspecific. John, I wish I knew what keeps me at your side and why it is your name that comes up in my thoughts most often. Why am I unable to delete any memory with you in it, when many of them are completely trivial and useless? Is that sentiment?

_2\. a strong bond between people who are close_

Without much thought I can see there certainly is _some_ bond between us. You would die for me, as you have proven more than once. You are loyal to me, to the puzzlement of everybody who has gotten to know me. You follow me even though I humiliate you several times a day. And you give my mind peace and– I need you.

_3\. feeling a strong connection to something that is of great value to one_

That part I don’t _quite_ understand; I am defective when it comes to these things. An emotional cripple, as if my faculty of love had been surgically removed the day after I was born. If you value your chair, then I swear that if you moved out of Baker Street 221B, I could not bear to look at it, as it would remind me of you. You are tea, guns and those funny jumpers that I actually adore though I would never admit that. I realize I have no idea what you value.

_4\. a keen interest in or enjoyment of something_

I genuinely enjoy it when we go out together, chasing murderers, risking our lives. Giggling in dark alleys, even though there is an armed man waiting for us just around the corner. I am keen on seeing your approving look when I crush Anderson with a few frank sentences. I appreciate the time we spend in cafés and like watching you eat. The days with no cases get less annoying when I see your tired face or smell your tea. I hide my smile whenever you make me eat something. I have grown used to your irritation at the sight of more internal organs in our fridge. I like your strong hands, John. I like your presence and I honestly love talking to you, even when you are out.

_5\. the object of one’s feelings and desires_

You are not boring even if you think that is what I believe. The first time we met I was already interested in you; otherwise I wouldn’t have wanted us to share a flat. I’m sure you have noticed I find it difficult to relate to people. For you, I made an exception, and I was right to do that. When you found my skill _amazing_ and failed to tell me to shut up after I deduced you– well, you proved to me you were the perfect choice. And I have grown addicted to you, John Watson. You are my safety zone; I can always count on you. I want to spend all my days with you, so long as you are quiet sometimes.

_6\. sexual intercourse_

Sex… Not a topic I have ever explored in any depth. I only know the theory; the practice remains an uncharted territory and may that state of affairs long continue. Mycroft would at this point no doubt give me a mocking look, despite the fact his own experience at this sport is nil. Pity, too, as I am sure he would lose some weight if he tried copulating… But I digress from _us_.

If we were to become a couple– but wait, a couple? Are we not already in a mariage blanc? But if you finally realized and I happily acknowledged that, you would doubtless expect _that_. John, you like sex. Let us of course skip the fact that you are not gay, or at least say so. Everybody else disagrees and all things considered, I am inclined to side with them. Myself, I have no sexuality, unless it is you.

Johnsexual… Now that begins to make some sense.

I delete browser history and sit back in my chair, steepling my hands. I like to look into your eyes, John; you always have a warm look for me. Even when there is anger or disappointment in your face, deep underneath I can sense inscrutable goodness as well. Are you aware that but for you I would have long lain six feet under? Unless Mycroft had had me cremated, which is much more likely. Murdered by a criminal, intoxicated to death or rotting in a drug den. You have saved me, doctor. I will always thank God (in whom I do not believe) for that shot at your left shoulder. For your survival and your acquaintance with Mike Stamford. I (or actually my brother) will have to buy that man an expensive car, or whatever it is he wants. He brought you to me, changing both our lives.

I shake my head, frowning. It’s all ridiculous, why waste time analysing such trivia!? I growl in frustration, unable to dam my thoughts: I don’t like the direction this is all taking. Never to date have I paid attention to my feelings, and you, John Watson, have brought them to life by taking hold of my cold heart. Bastard.

But to return to those six definitions of love (unwilling to look further, I hope there are no more than six and this particular dictionary is correct): assigning a point to each defining expression, I score four out of six. I do not show signs of lust, want sex with you or desire you in _that_ way. Can such a result be considered love? I have no clue and don’t suppose this vexing problem can be solved by means of arithmetics. No doubt you would at this point chuckle from above your paper if you were sitting across from me rather than wandering around Tesco. My brilliant mind cannot cope with this, John. Not that I intend to ask _you_ about this whole love thing, not when you change your women as smoothly as others change their socks or, in my case, dressing gowns.

I sit down at my computer again, with mixed feelings typing _Romanticism_ into the search bar. The vaguest and most irrational period, a blemish on the age of Enlightenment and its thinkers. Having arrived, it tainted people’s minds and has not left since. I flinch, gazing uncertainly at the screen. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, _Sorrows of Young Werther_ : a literary classic of importance to the Sturm und Drang. A novel which doesn’t even treat of love. If the title character ever had any true feelings for Lotte, I swear I shall apologize to Anderson for everything. Everything!

Werther then, a man of some genius, I would even say, of intelligence, yet predictable. Educated, though not keen on work. No, he would get bored easily, the way I do. He did not care for the monotony of everyday life; certainly nature was of more interest to him, mutable, wild and beautiful. He needed some variety in his life and who would provide him with the thrill if not a woman? A splendid actor, manipulative and spider-like. Able to convince himself that he had fallen in love with Lotte, while confiding in Wilhelm that he could break the affair off at any moment. While she did love him, all he did was play a game, which proved as addictive as morphine. He wanted more… until there was no turning back and he had to put an end to it all. Is that letter not proof enough that he was a two-faced brute? That mention of pistols having passed through his supposed beloved’s hands, that irony at Albert’s expense, blaming her for his suicide– every word of this letter destroying the innocent Lotte. And he did die, did shoot himself. Knowing she would follow him. Because he wanted her to; it was his wish.

I smile, looking out the window. So many idiots have been taken in by this story and I feel, John, that you would be too. Luckily, and to your credit, you don’t read such garbage.

Another famous Romantic author turns out to have been Polish. Adam Mickiewicz; oddly enough, I know him. Cheated on his wife while she was dying, had innumerable lovers. I laugh again but rather than closing the tab I decide to look into his works.

I pick one called _Uncertainty_ , as the title perfectly reflects my state of mind.

_When I don't see you, I don't shed a tear_  
_Nor do I lose my senses when you're near,_  
_But, with our meetings few and far between,_  
_There's something missing, waiting to be seen._  
_Is there a name for what I'm thinking of?_  
_Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?_

John, we have a problem. Not only does this text not answer my question, quite the opposite! Friendship or love? Why does this silly poem fit my situation so well? John! Come home, I don’t have the strength to face this alone!

_As soon as we have said our last good-byes,_  
_Your image never floats before my eyes;_  
_But more than once, when you have been long gone,_  
_I seemed to feel your presence linger on._  
_I wonder then what I've been thinking of._  
_Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?_

John, there’s too much of you in my Mind Palace, too much of you in my thoughts. As I walk the corridors of my inner fortress, I keep passing you and you just keep on being there. I feel you hold on to my soul, whatever _that_ is.

_When I'm downcast, I never seek relief_  
_By pouring out my heart in tales of grief;_  
_Yet, as I wander aimlessly, once more_  
_I somehow end up knocking at your door;_  
_What brought me here? What am I thinking of?_  
_Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?_

John, when did you become the support on which I rest my weight? It was the moment I met you, wasn’t it? If I believed in fate, I would say that was what allowed us to meet. You are my friend; my only one. The poem sinks me, telling me what I already know while making me realize how important you are to me. What have you done to me?

_I'd give my life to keep you sound and well,_  
_To make you smile, I would descend to Hell;_  
_But though I'd climb the mountains, swim the seas_  
_I do not look to be your health and peace:_  
_Again I ask, what am I thinking of?_  
_Are we just friends? or should I call this love?_

John, I have never admitted that to you (although you may well have noticed it yourself), but when Moriarty put an explosive vest on you… I was afraid my mind had gone insane. I had never before been so afraid, and tearing it off you, I thanked God (in whom. Let me repeat, I do not believe) that you were safe. You are my priority. Although I drag you to dangerous crime scenes, know that I would leap off a roof for you if I had to.

_And when you place your hand upon my palm,_  
_I am enveloped in a blissful calm,_  
_Prefiguring some final, gentle rest;_  
_But still my heart beats loudly in my breast_  
_As if to ask: what are you thinking of?_  
_Are you two friends? or will you call this love?_

John, I like your hands. I like it when you stand next to me, I am calmer feeling the warmth radiating off your strong body. You would laugh, but such is the truth. Nothing soothes me like the awareness of your presence. Damn you, John Watson. You have done me a great harm.

_No bardic spirit seized my mortal tongue_  
_When I thought of you and composed this song;_  
_But still, I can't help wondering sometimes:_  
_Where did these notions come from, and these rhymes?_  
_In heaven's name, what was I dreaming of?_  
_And what had inspired me? Friendship or love?_

Tell me, John, why am I pondering all this? What has happened to me? Why? What for? John!

I close the laptop just as you enter the room. You have been out, I know, but– I was still talking to you if only in my head. Surprised to see you, I say nothing. You notice something, arching your brows questioningly.

John, and what about you? You think of me often, you would die for me and you like to spend time with me– that poem fits you, too, John, and you too would get four out of six!

“Sherlock?”

“We have a problem. I’m afraid I might be–” I pause; it is too terrible! “in love.”

He laughs (I cannot keep talking to you with you standing right in front of me); I knew it, I knew it! He really ought not to; it’s terrifying. All that…

“Listen to me. _We_ could be in love. We! Four out of six! And sex is only ever an extra anyway! And that poem, that Mickiewicz guy knew more I have been giving him credit for. Those Romanticists!” I am hysterical; I need to calm down. “Where are my cigarettes?”

“What are you on about?” he asks, confused. Deduce it, John, deduce it!

“Love. Us, being in. A dictionary. You must be somewhat gay after all. Whereas I… actually have a sexual orientation,” I say rapidly, pacing. Clenching my eyes, I throw myself on the sofa.

He is silent, and so am I. I don’t dare turn around, this is too much. Feelings are not for brilliant people; they are our doom. Now I see why Mycroft has never found a friend. He has a weakness for Gavin–no, Graham–Lestrade, but he won’t move forward or he will be doomed.

“Sherlock, have you been reading Romantic poetry?” he sounds sceptical.

“Research, John. I had to.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I love you.”

“Sherlock, you taken anything?” Concerned, he is afraid for me. Well so am I!

“It’s love, all right? Not something I would want, but it’s happened! Shoot me for it, I won’t be able to stand Mycroft’s comments.”

“And you think I love you too?”

“So I have deduced.”

“You would have,” he sighs, amused. I send my doctor a slightly surprised look. He is more composed than I thought… Ah, no. His hand is not twitching.

“Do you have a date tonight?”

“No,” he replies tersely. Producing his phone, he searches for a number.

“You were going to have one.”

“Just cancelling it now.”

“Why?”

“We have a case, don’t we? We don’t want either of us to share Werther’s fate. Let this go differently.”

“What are you talking about, John?” I sit up, staring at my doctor. He smiles a small smile, making me feel better.

“A study in love, Sherlock. Solve it.”

“Sounds awful.” I flinch again. “Also, you will not blog about this one.”

“Oh God, no!”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translator's note: there is [a pretty translation of _Uncertainty_ by Jarek Zawadzki](https://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/mickiewicz-uncertainty.html) (who just _might_ be the Jarek Zawadzki I used to know, briefly, this being a small world), one I really like which has an advantage or two over [the (anonymous?) translation I used here](http://allpoetry.com/Uncertainty), although it loses against it in other places. I still had to tweak of course :).


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